


Hurt and Heart (Only two Letters apart)

by Vanimelda4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Coma, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 01:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanimelda4/pseuds/Vanimelda4
Summary: After being shot during a case Sherlock ends up comatose in the hospital. Sitting by his bedside John tries to muster up the courage to finally say the things he should have said earlier.





	Hurt and Heart (Only two Letters apart)

John rubbed his face with his hands.  
God, he was tired.  
It felt like he'd been at this hospital for weeks on end. Waiting for Sherlock. For him to wake up.  
Sherlock had gotten himself in some kind of dangerous situation again and he had gotten hurt.  
Bad, this time.  
Coma, that's what the doctors had said. The chance of regaining consciousness very small.  
Well, shit. 

He couldn't really remember all the details of how it had happened. It had all gone so fast and when he tried to remember it now it was pretty much a blur in his mind.  
They had been chasing a criminal. What his crime was? John honestly couldn't say. He had gotten himself swept up in the storm that was Sherlock Holmes once again.  
Not that he was complaining.  
Ever since he had met Sherlock his life had gotten so much more adventurous. So much more exciting. So much more worthwhile.  
These days when he'd take out his gun he would no longer point it at himself.  
That was good. Very good. 

One of the monitors hooked up to one of the many machines that were in turn hooked up to Sherlock beeped.  
None of the nurses came running so John concluded it was probably nothing to worry about.  
He sighed.  
He cleared his throat.  
'Sherlock....', he started and then stopped himself. Even now with his friend so badly hurt. A possibility of him not making it. He still had a hard time saying what he should have said a long time ago.  
“the bravest man he'd ever known”, that's what Sherlock had called him. It seemed ages ago. Almost in another life. Not so brave after all then. Not where it mattered.  
John covered his face with his hands again and rubbed his eyes. Lately he pretty much just felt dazed and confused all the time. As if he was operating from behind some dense fog that clouded his vision and made his actions dull and sluggish. He was so damn tired. But he had to stay awake.  
For Sherlock. 

Again a beep from the monitors. Another one this time. Indicating that Sherlocks heart, for the time being, was still beating. A small computer generated noise that, on its own, was pretty insignificant. But what it symbolized meant the world to John. The possibility of death lurked in the silence. Every time that monitor made a noise John was mortally afraid it would be for the last time and he couldn't help but hold his breath until it started up again.

Some madman had taken out a gun. Sherlock had been positive he would be unarmed. Turns out even genius can be fallible.  
John had been right behind Sherlock, but it turned out, not close enough.  
Damn his short legs and damn Sherlocks long ones.  
The madman had taken out his gun and had shot Sherlock. No hesitation.  
Also no hesitation on Johns part. His plan had been to jump between Sherlock and the bullet.  
A life for a life. Return the favor that Sherlock had done for him so many years ago.  
John had been a shell after he came back from the war. Broken and tired. All the spirit that had once possessed him had slipped out between the cracks that the weight of the past few years had made in him.  
Sherlock had saved him. Had given everything back to him. Had repaired his broken housing with gold and made him shine in the light that was sherlocks brilliance.  
If it hadn't been for Sherlock he would have ended it a long time ago. Put his army firearm to his head and pulled the trigger.  
It would be fitting that it should still be a bullet that did the deed. Only this time his death would mean something.  
Because Sherlock would live because of it. 

But that was not how it had happened. He had been too late. He had fallen to the ground. A searing pain shooting through his left side where he hit the pavement. Hard. And he had blacked out just as the bullet sailed overhead and hit Sherlock in the chest.  
The madman had escaped, Sherlock had been shot and he had not saved anyone.  
There were no happy endings in his story. 

John stared out of the window in Sherlocks hospital room. Dusk. How long had he been here? Visiting hours must be almost over. They'd come and ask him to leave soon.  
But he wasn't ready to leave. Not yet.  
He still had things to say.  
And he had a feeling that this might be the last chance he'd get to do so. 

'Sherlock', he said again. His voice a bit raspy from unuse.  
He swallowed around a lump in his throat and tried again.  
'Sherlock', he said for the third time that day, 'I know you can't hear me and I wish to God I had had the courage to say these things when you could, but if not now.........'  
The beeps that indicated Sherlocks heart rate seemed to be accelerating.  
Probably just a coincidence, but against better judgment and the explanations the doctors gave, John hoped it might just be because a small part of what he was saying was reaching Sherlock in whatever dark dream-scape he found himself right now. 

'Sherlock......god....I need to stop saying your name', John tried to reach for Sherlocks hand. Take his hand in his, but he found himself unable to move. Unable to move even his gaze from where it was fixed on sherlocks face. 

'You were the best man that I have ever known', he continued. Again swallowing against a lump in his throat. Familiar words. Once again only spoken out loud when Sherlock was unable to hear.  
'You will never know how much you mean to me. Have meant to me. I was so alone......'

The machines beeped in response. 

'I'm not good with these kinds of things. Emotions. You know that. We were so alike in that regard. So many missed opportunities. So many chances we had that we both squandered. If only......let that be my epitaph when I die. If only. And let me be buried next to you. Because, Sherlock, without you, what meaning does my life still have?  
I think I knew from the moment I met you. But it's like staring into the sun. The light is so bright that you get blinded by it and are unable to see the true beauty of it.  
You were my sun. Bright and warm and utterly blinding. And.....I can say it now......the love of my life.  
I loved you Sherlock. I loved you. I loved you. I loved you.  
I was just so afraid of speaking out and losing everything. You were the sun and I was a prudent Icarus who never dared go close enough to see if my wax wings would melt.  
God, where am I getting all this from.....  
Love makes us fools and poets and maybe both.  
And I have been a fool. We both have been.  
I just need you to know. Before it is too late. If it not already is. I love you. I always have. Always will. And, let me make a vow to you, even if you don't feel the same I will never leave you until the day I die.

*************************************************************************************************

Sherlock stood up with a jolt from the chair in which he'd been sitting next to Johns hospital bed.  
'He tried to speak. I know it!'  
'Now, now, mister Holmes, let's not jump to any conclusions', the nurse said that had come rushing in as soon as he had pushed the emergency button, ' when patients are in a deep coma for a long time, like mister Watson here' she gestured at John as if to say “here lies exhibit A” and continued: 'sometimes their body tends to make involuntary movements. It may appear as if they are moving or even trying to speak, but in the end it's nothing more than just reflexes caused by prolonged immobility. You know this, sir.' 

'I know what I saw.'

'It's late sir and visiting hours are long over. Shouldn't you be heading home to get some rest? You look tired'. 

'He tried to speak and his heart rate went up'

'He can't speak sir. He's got a tube in his trachea that's helping him breathe. Involuntary elevations in heart rate also sometimes happen in comatose patients. I'm sorry sir. I just don't want to get your hopes up. You know what the doctors have said.'

Sherlock did not reply, but instead sat down again in the chair by Johns bedside where he had spent the greater part of the last three weeks.  
The bloody idiot had to go and catch a bullet for him.  
They had been chasing a bank employee embezzling money. Not too exciting a case. A seven at best. Sherlock had been sure the man would be unarmed. He had been wrong.  
He had been wrong and it had almost cost Johns life.  
His John. 

'There! He tried to speak again! You can't honestly tell me that's just a reflex' Sherlock scoffed at the nurse. 

'I'm afraid so sir. You're tired. You're starting to see things that aren't there. You need to go home and get some sleep'

'I'll not go home unless I get to go home with him'. Sherlock slumped further in his chair and crossed his arms indignantly. 

'You really love him, don't you' the nurse gave him a soft but sad smile, 'I'll get you some food and blankets mister Holmes. You can sleep here again tonight'. 

Sherlock did not reply. He just waited patiently. The heart monitor beeped and Sherlock silently held his breath until it beeped again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading.  
> Comments are always appreciated. I'm just starting out with this writing biz so feedback is always nice.


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